The Truth is in Friendship
by chiaroscurro88
Summary: Carolyn Darcy returns home for her father's funeral, and ends up meeting an intriguing man named David Bennett. She is usually a nice person, so she doesn't understand why she suddenly is rude to him all the time. P&P. AU.
1. When in Rome

**A/N:** Hi to everyone that *might* be reading my fanfic. This is my first ever attempt at writing a story/fic/whatever. I'm just using this site as an incentive to actually finish a story, and work it from start to finish. So please review and whatnot, because I would love feedback on what you all think (considering I'm a ffn virgin).

This is a Pride and Prejudice fanfic, though it will be loosely based on it--not following it as religiously as some might like (much like Bridget Jones was loosely based on it). I want to take liberties with the story by changing the characters around and making them of the opposite sex--though I don't believe all of the characters will be switched. Some characters will also be condensed, because I'll get too sidetracked with the story, and I'm not as brilliant as Miss Austen to keep my head in the game. So without further ado...my story.

Just so you know, I am introducing a character that I am going to write her accent phonetically. It's a Maine accent, and being from Maine, I'm pretty sure I have it down. So please don't take offense to this at all, I'm just writing it as I hear it.

**Disclaimer: **I would give my left foot to be Jane Austen, that way I could have a claim on this story.

* * *

**Prologue**

Not to sound cliché or anything, but from an early age I knew I was different from the rest of my family. As a Darcy, certain things are required of you in life. I was expected to lead by example, being from a very prestigious New England family. And since I was an only child, and a girl, my parents--or at least my mother--expected me to run the family business. But as it would seem, I had other plans.

I was about four years old the first time I told my cousin Edie I wanted to go to college—and one that was not an ivy league school. Coming from a family that values the name-dropping of higher education, my mother nearly passed out when she heard what I had said, but she recovered. Fast-forward fourteen years and I had made my way to Boston University: I majored in international affairs and minored in communications. I was happy. No one in the world could have possibly taken me down from my plateau of bliss. When I graduated fifth in my class, I thought that nothing could be better, until I was offered a job as a personality on a traveler's guide show. Of course, that meant I would have to travel around the world, and that my home base was not going to be in my hometown. My family was furious when I decided to take the job, but I was in heaven. I was living my dream, making six figures (with a trust fund that was worth infinitely more, mind you), and I was away from Maine. The only problem was that all my worldly experience could not, in a million years, prepare me for that one fateful night.

* * *

**Chapter One**

I was in Italy for a special episode on Rome, and I had just returned to my hotel room after a long day of shooting. My feet were throbbing from standing in "cute" heels and flashing my million-dollar-smile at the camera the whole day, and I had not eaten a single bite of food since the pastry I had for breakfast earlier that morning. After all was said and done, all I wanted to do was lie down; maybe even take a nice, warm bubble bath. I kicked off my heels and unzipped my skirt, allowing it to cascade down my slender legs and onto the floor. I sighed with relief: the only shortcoming of my job was that I had to be in uncomfortable clothing for the entire day. I slumped onto the bed, and within two seconds my cell phone rang. Grumbling, I sat up to find the unwelcome interruption. By the time I found it (at the bottom of my day-bag, of course), I had missed the call. I was so tempted to just put the ringer on silent and toss the phone back into the bag, when I had a sudden urge to check who had called. I looked through my missed calls list and noticed that it was Matt Bingley, my co-star.

_What could he possibly want,_ I thought. _We saw each other not even fifteen minutes ago. _

As much as I didn't want to talk to anyone, I picked up the phone. There was no way he was already in bed, even if it was almost eleven: Matt was, to a certain extent, a night owl.

"I knew it was only a matter of time before you called me back," he said in his beautiful, sexy, albeit arrogant, voice. "What do you say we go back out to see the night-life around here? You know, in Italy, it's not as quiet this late as it is back in the states."

"Matt, it's eleven and we have to be up by six to catch our plane to Morocco," I reasoned. I was usually the last person to be out late at night when there were things to be done early the next day.

"At least come have a nightcap with me. I'm lonely. The bed's lonely. Won't you come—please?" It took quite a bit of strength to refuse him that evening. He was quite the charmer, and I could never resist him. Not to mention that his English accent made it all the more difficult.

"Fine then," he said after some pleading. "I'll see you in the morning. Maybe we can toss in a quick shag before we leave—"

"How about later, then?"

"You mean on the plane? Well I suppose the restrooms are decent. –My God, you are kinky—" His teasing made me sigh; I didn't like it when he made me feel—for lack of a better word—dirty.

"No, Matt. I mean I might stop by for a drink later, but nothing more. We can't get carried away, here; and we have to look alive for the cameras tomorrow, remember?" He was making it harder and harder to resist him, so I had to give myself something.

"Alright, then. I suppose I could live with that," he said. He paused for a moment, and I became mesmerized by the sound of his breathing. "Oh, and by the way, the strangest thing happened," he said, finally breaking my trance. "Your mother called me. She was looking for you; she said that you weren't answering your phone."

"I never answer my phone when she calls," I explained.

"Well, you might want to call her back this time; it sounded quite important. Just call me when you want to come around."

And with that, there was a click on the other end of the line.

* * *

If there was one thing I dreaded, it was talking to my mother on the phone. I loved my mother, don't get me wrong; but I had a feeling she was not all too forgiving about me not talking to her in over four years. Every time I had spoken to her on the phone in the past, I was reminded of what I left behind; whom I had abandoned; and yadda-yadda; the list just went on and on. I hadn't been home in over eleven years specifically for that reason. Sure, I missed my hometown, but it wasn't part of what I wanted out of life. I figured that if I wanted to spend time in Maine, it would be during the Christmas season when I had kids. And at that particular point in my life, children were not yet on the agenda. I was only thirty-two, and the biological clock theory had been out the window ages ago. According to Matt, we had time for that later in life.

Not even a minute passed before I decided to pick of the phone and dial. The single hum of the dial tone made my heart flutter.

_Why am I doing this? _I thought. _I must be out of my mind._

Suddenly, there was a click on the other line—someone had answered the phone. A tired voice that sounded to be about fifty mustered all its strength to utter a 'hello'. I opened my mouth to speak, but it was as if no words could form and escape my mouth. The woman on the other line repeated herself several times before ranting about 'how it was lunch-time and how telemarketers should not bother such a nice family as hers, especially in the state they were in'. I could not help but roll my eyes and smile: if I had not recognized the voice before, I certainly did then.

"Mrs.—Rosie, slow down. It's me," I said with a sigh. Rosie, my family's live-in maid, stopped; through the phone, I could sense the wave of shock that struck her.

"Miss Carolyn, is that you?" She asked in bewilderment. Her small-town Maine accent was as strong as ever.

"Yeah, Rosie. It's me. Matt said that mom was looking for me—that it was important."

I wanted to get the conversation going. I had a nagging feeling something was wrong, and if any change in plans were to be made they would have had to be made hours earlier. The next installment in my series was being shot the next day in Morocco, and we would have had to find a fill-in.

"Carolyn, you betteh sit down, hunny. Ah'yer sittin'?"

"Yes, yes. What is it?"

"Lynnie, I'm so sorry I 'ave to tell you this way. It was me that called Matt; I just figuhed that if I told 'im I was yer motheh, you woulda called sooneh." She paused there for a few minutes breathing lightly into the phone. My heart did a little flip at her mention of my old nickname. No one had called me Lynnie in years. I began to get anxious and politely asked her to continue. "Lynnie—yer fatheh's dead."

At that instant, all the air escaped my lungs as if they were a pair of balloons that someone poked a needle through. My father was dead. Dead. I felt more shock than sadness at that point, and racked my brain for possibilities as to how he could have possibly died. He was fifty-eight and healthy—wasn't he? I spoke to him about twice a month (without my mother's knowledge), surely he would have told me if he were sick—wouldn't he? We were so close, and yet I never felt more estranged from anyone in my family, than I did from him, in that particular instant.

"But, how—" was all I could get out of my mouth. I was still unable to form words due to the lack of air in my lungs.

"He 'ad prostate canceh, Lynnie." I could practically hear the sobs she was trying to hold back as she told me this. "He didn't want anyone to know. He hid it from us until it was too late." This confused me, and it took me a few seconds to realize that I should have her elaborate.

"How long?" I asked, trying to make sense of it all.

"He only found out about six weeks ago," she answered solemnly. "It's a pity, too. Steve is the one that found 'im unconscious befohe we took 'im to the hospital. They told us what was really goin' on, and they kept 'im thehe for two days befohe he passed. They tried to keep 'im as comf'table as they could." She finished that last line with a quick sob that I was not intended to hear.

"Rosie," I said when I decided to break a long pause. "Don't let anyone know—I'm coming home."

* * *

**A/N: **So what do you think for a first timer????? Please review, I don't care how harsh you are (it would make my day). Oh, and P.S. the entire story will be in the point of view of the Darcy-like character (something different I thought I would try).


	2. The Long Way Home

**A/N:** Hi. I changed the rating of this story to teen, so that it would be easier for more people to get into (I feel that an M rating scares people away). Anyway, I've noticed, also, how short my last chapter was. I was not expecting that. I will try to make them a little longer so that it becomes worth reading (or I'll just update more often?). What do you think? Reviews would be nice.

Logan is the name of the airport in Boston, MA.

Portland is the largest city in Maine, though not the capital. It has a population of about 68,000, while the entire state has about 1.1 million people.

**Disclaimer:** Jane Austen would probably roll her eyes at the atrocity of my writing. I don't own the Travel Channel, United Colors of Benetton, Victoria's Secret, _Shut Up and Let Me Go _by the Ting Tings.

* * *

Chapter Two

Home. I hadn't called the small town of Friendship, Maine, home in a long, long time. In fact, most of my associates believed I was originally from Boston or one of its suburbs; I just never bothered to correct any of them. Home was never very specific in location to me: it certainly wasn't in Boston or any town of Maine, which it should have been. I was always misplaced—a side effect of my job. Not even the Washington, D.C., suburb, where I had an apartment to commute to the Travel Channel corporate offices, was ever a home to me.

After I put down the phone, I realized what it was that I had promised to do. Immediately, I called room service and ordered a full bottle of grappa for myself. After agreeing to the request, the concierge asked me if I believed it would be a good idea to order that much. I grimaced, knowing very well that it wasn't. I just replied that it shouldn't matter to him what I did with my time, and within five minutes there was a room service attendant at my door. I found my way to the chaise lounge and flopped down, breaking out the booze.

As I sat there drinking absentmindedly, I was impressed by how fast the attendant had arrived, but I remembered that people in those positions don't have a choice. When a television personality requests something of them, they are required to do it. I grew up privileged, so that kind of attention was not new to me. My father inherited his business from his father, and provided us with what people of society call 'old money'. We were like the Kennedy's of Maine; albeit, no one outside of Maine really knew who we were. We were much wealthier than we ever let on, unless of course, you regard my mother. She liked to flash her wealth at everyone, as if to tell the whole of Maine's population that it was beneath the Darcy family. We were responsible for the majority of Maine's custom-made sailboats and yachts. A business that, no doubt, was supposed to be passed down to me. At least my father never really saw it that way…

The sudden honk of a loud car horn and some general traffic noise startled me to attention. I realized that I had somehow made my way onto the balcony of my suite, and I was sitting at the provided bistro chair. When I looked at the small table beside my chair, I noticed that I somehow drank two thirds of the bottle on my own. I was undoubtedly drunk, but I was just too numb to notice. I couldn't feel anything, and it wasn't from the alcohol; I had felt like that ever since I ended my conversation with Rosie. I immediately picked up my cell phone, which was conveniently lying on the table beside me, and dialed my assistant's number. She was startled, and slightly frightened, to find that I was calling at such ungodly hours of the morning. The poor girl was relieved to find that all she needed to do was book a flight to Boston for the next morning and hire a car to take me up to Portland. As soon as the conversation ended, I was reassured. I was in no condition to fly home immediately, let alone drive myself up to Maine with a retched hangover the next day.

I began to lift myself out of my chair and realized that I had put my heels back on for some odd reason—I also had no pants on. I was sitting out on a Roman balcony in the middle of April, in a deep plum Benetton t-shirt and robin's-egg-blue Victoria's Secret panties, with stiletto heels on. I really needed to go inside. I managed out of my chair and awkwardly felt my way back inside without, miraculously, breaking my limbs. Fortunately I was only in Rome for the day, which meant I hadn't unpacked anything. All I had to do was make my way to the bed without hurting myself. As I stumbled around over my lack of coordination, I grasped anything that could help me keep my balance on my way to the bed. Once I made it there safely, I just collapsed. My face buried deep into the goose down pillows as I kicked off the heels I managed to not trip over.

"That's the last time I buy from a department store," I groaned into the pillow.

No one was there with me—I had the entire suite to myself—but I felt as though I had to explain myself. It was an odd feeling that rushed over me.

_How do I explain my eleven-year absence to my mother? To my brother, Steve?_ I thought to myself.

I could not explain it to my father: my best friend, my confidante, my reason for keeping a connection with Maine in the first place. He was probably the only friend I had left in Maine—that is if I had not messed things up so badly. And he wasn't even there to share my fears with him anymore. It was definitely time to go back to Friendship—home. I at least had to go sort things out with the lawyers as to what to do next, and I had to say 'good-bye'. I had a suspicion that saying 'hello' to some people would be harder.

* * *

I was suddenly startled awake by my '_Shut Up and Let Me Go'_ ringtone; I picked up my phone and answered it groggily.

"Hello?" I asked in a voice that mimicked that of Harvey Fierstein.

"Car, are you ready?" A familiar voice asked on the other end. It was female, so it couldn't possibly be Matt.

"Hmm? What time is it?" My voice was so raspy that I tried to clear my throat, unfortunately that failed once I felt the intense burn course through my neck.

"It's eleven-thirty, and your plane leaves in about three hours. You didn't forget that you have to be at the airport two hours early, now, did you?" Ahh. I recognized that voice right then. The worrying tone and obsession with timeliness betrayed itself--it was Mary Bingley, Matt's twin sister and my best friend.

"Shit, I didn't realize it was that late. How do you know I'm leaving?" I asked. The only person I could think of that would share that information would be my assistant. My, word travels fast.

"Well, Matt told me who heard it from your assistant at their meeting this morning. They said something about you flying into Boston and then driving up to Maine." She said that last sentence as if it were a question, with a hint of she thinking I was crazy; my take was that she was surprised by the fact that I was going home so abruptly. "As soon as I heard, I booked a flight to join you when you change planes in London. I know that whatever it is that you are going home for cannot be easy, so I want to be there for you. Matt and I both. Why _are_ you going home, anyway?"

I didn't know how to tell her without sounding like I was fishing for sympathy--which I wasn't--so I just told her point blank, "My father died." It was still surprisingly easy to say out loud without feeling anything. That, I was sure, was not going to last.

"Oh my God, hunny," was all she could let out. We sat in silence on the phone until it became uncomfortable, so I decided to end the conversation.

"Mary, I have to go get ready, hun," I said. "I'm glad you're going to be there. I'll see you later." After a long pause I added, "You have no idea how much I appreciate you coming along."

* * *

The flight was long. Far too long. It takes a total of eight hours of actual flying to get back to Boston from Rome, but when those eight hours are split it can be excruciating. Matt and I made the connection in London after a three hour flight, but there was a six-hour layover that just bored me to tears. We couldn't leave the airport, so it just added to the annoyances we had to face. When we finally boarded the plane, with Mary in tow, I was so anxious to get over onto American soil. Matt and Mary had been to the United States before, but they had never been farther north than Manhattan. This was going to be a rude awakening for them. The flight back to Boston was about five hours, which was not bad. When Matt and Mary left the terminal and entered the actual airport, they gushed at how small and "cute" Logan was (mind you, that Matt was doing it more to be facetious) . It nauseated me to think that they were soon to find themselves in a state with one good airport, which only had enough terminals to count them on both hands.

The town car that picked us up drove the two-and-a-half-hour drive up to a car rental place in Portland. The people were nice enough to have an attendant waiting there--even after closing--to give us our rental (it's amazing what a few extra Benjamins can do in this society).

Matt took one look at the vehicle and scoffed at it. "An SUV," he said this more as a statement. "And a Jeep, no less. At least get a Range Rover."

"It's what works best out here, I said. We need the space for all of us, and we'll need the four-wheel drive. Trust me on this," I retorted. "It's April, Matt. It's quite bumpy out there; and you don't want to get stuck in mud."

"What? Are we going rock climbing in that--that--thing?" He spat. Something told me he was not going to enjoy his stay. "Love, let's just trade this in for a Mercedes or something."

"No," I argued. I didn't want to embarrass the attendant who was helping so nicely, so after Matt kept complaining I finally caved. If getting a more ostentatious car was what would calm Matt's nerves, I was willing to oblige him--for the moment. I agreed to choose another car. As he expressed all of his excitement, I--politely--asked the attendant if that was possible. He told me that he had to open the shop again to go through all the information he needed to fill out on the computer, as well as retrieve the keys. He gave me the opportunity to choose from three cars, and I ended up choosing the Lexus SUV. This, I was sure, would work perfectly because it was flashy _and_ practical. I apologized profusely to the attendant and thanked him for all of his help, but he just gave me a sympathizing look. At first I was puzzled by his gaze, but then I realized something: I was the one driving in that car. I would be the one spending all that time with Matt. I chuckled a little to myself--but quietly so I wouldn't have to explain anything--and graciously took the keys from the attendant.

With that we put all of our luggage into the vehicle and I drove out to i-295.

We continued on in silence for about fifteen minutes before I finally decided to let them in on some rules when dealing with my family.

"First and foremost," I started. "Do NOT mention Meredith Wickham. Just don't. It will ruin your chance of ever being allowed in my mother's house again." The silence I received in response was an indication that this was understood.

"Second: be careful what you say around Steve, he's only eleven. Third: you know my mother loves it when she's buttered up--just don't make me vomit at all your flattery. Fourth: well..." I paused, not able to think of a fourth rule. I glanced at Matt who was riding beside me and noticed he was shivering a bit, so I turned on the heat. Obviously April in Italy is very different from April in Maine. I, though away for eleven years, was used to it.

Then it dawned on me. "Well, don't make a spectacle of yourselves. It rubs the wrong way with these small-town people. You'll see what I mean."

With that, I turned the radio on and found my old favorite station. The music was drastically different. I left when it still played songs by performers like Phish and Meredith Brooks. Now all I heard was Britney Spears and Gym Class Heroes. I changed the station quickly to a classic rock station, and felt comfortable with the song by Queen that was playing. As I drove I noticed in my peripheral that both Mary and Matt had fallen asleep. I took a sip of my highly caffeinated Coke and pressed onward.

* * *

**A/N: **So....what do you think? I came up with this idea while I was listing the music that I come up with a few songs that should be playing in the background of each chapter, and then post them on my profile. It won't happen right away, but it will eventually include songs for every chapter.

Please read and review me, thanks!


	3. My Father's Eyes

**A/N:** Hi!!! Thanks for the reviews, guys. They are much appreciated! So just so you know, I added some things to the to previous chapters to make it more clear where things were going, and also changed names to make it more clear as to who is who. So if you can check out the edit, that would be great.

I was just mapping out where this story was going today, and I think you'll all be in for a surprise (not a bad one, I promise!). I've also decided that I'm naming all of my chapters after songs. Not that the songs have anything to do with them, it's just the title matches the mood of that particular chapter. When I compile my list of songs, I will include the title song as well. So here is something new…..

London is not a real town in Maine, but I used it because it's a running joke that Maine has all these world-famous cities and countries as town names (such as Paris and Mexico, which are real towns).

**Disclaimer:** Jane Austen is the lovely maiden that owns works such as Pride & Prejudice. I, alas, am not that lovely maiden.

* * *

The drive up to my childhood home was a long one. With both Matt and Mary asleep, I had time to think about what I would say to my mother when I would speak to her for the first time in four years. I kept running scenarios in my mind until I finally came up with one that actually made sense. I would just tell her that I didn't know how to communicate when so much had changed.

_Yes, that's it, _I thought. _It's so simple, but so true._

So much _had_ changed. I was no longer a child—I was in my thirties for God's sake—and I certainly was wiser. I just wished that I had been that wise before I walked out on my family and didn't look back for eleven years. I even missed the birth of my baby brother. When I was a child I always wanted siblings, but my parents told me that it wasn't 'God's Will'. When I was finally blessed with a younger sibling, I wasn't even around to acknowledge the splendid event. Now that I was going to meet him face to face, I didn't know how I would react. Sure, I e-mailed him in secret, and I talked on the phone with him a few times when my mother wasn't around. The only thing was that I never had a connection with him—he felt like some kid that just happened to live with my parents. I guess that it was because I wasn't around when he was growing up, so I felt that I needed to be around from then on. We had just lost someone that we were both very close to, and I was sure my father would have wanted us to genuinely bond after such an event. I could tell that there was going to be some serious making-up for lost time—I would make sure of that.

Suddenly, I slammed my foot on the break. There was a dark figure looming in the barely lit road, and I could hardly tell what it was. The jolt of the car startled the other two awake, causing them to groan and make snide comments about my driving. I wanted to slap Matt up side the head, but I just told him that it was an accident. We all just stared in bewilderment at the figure in front of the car. It was dark enough outside (due to a new moon—lucky us!) that not even the headlights on the SUV could make out the shape. The figure was about fifty yards from the car, and we wanted a closer look. I decided that I didn't want to drive out to it, because I didn't want anything to happen to the rental. Next thing I knew, Matt was unbuckling his seatbelt and starting for the door.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, in a sort of panic.

"I'm going to check things out. What does it look like I'm doing?" His tone angered me, but I was more worried for him than anything.

"Be careful," I said quickly. "You don't know what it is yet, it could hurt you."

Matt just waved his hand at me as if to say that I was to stay in the car and not worry so much. He crept toward the figure, making sure not to be too loud. As I squinted my eyes and peered fifty yards ahead, I could tell that it was a very large animal. Whatever it was, it was almost as tall as some of the trees lining the road. I looked at Matt creeping along and then back at the animal. If Matt were to somehow anger it, he would not survive—that was almost a promise. I pushed the button on my door to let down the window a little, giving myself enough room to stick my head through and call to Matt.

"Matt," I called in a breathy voice. I was trying to whisper to him, but I noticed that he wouldn't have heard me if I had. "Matt—come back to the car. I don't think this is such a good idea. You'll get pummeled if that thing notices you."

"He's an idiot," came from the back seat. I had almost completely forgotten that Mary was in the car with me. I brought my head back into the car, and I looked at her quickly through the rearview mirror. I noticed that she was looking back at me and shrugged, as if to agree with her. I turned my eyes toward Matt, following his every move.

Then, there was a slow change of shape up ahead, and I noticed the animal had shifted a bit. My heart stopped when I saw two large, beady eyes staring back at my vehicle. I looked straight ahead, almost feeling like the animal was looking into my eyes as well. That is when I noticed the antlers—very, _very_ large antlers. It was a moose. My stomach dropped at my realization, and I poked my head back out the window.

"Matt, get back in the car." I whispered loudly and frantically. "It's a moose, Matt. They can kill you. Get in before it thinks you're a threat and charges at us."

Realizing what I was saying, he just turned nonchalantly and proceeded to walk back to the car. As soon as he reached the car I turned off the headlights and brought up the window; we just sat there in silence, waiting for Matt to enter the vehicle. As soon as he closed the door behind him Mary and I both jabbed him in the shoulder with all the strength we had.

"My Jesus, that hurt," he exclaimed. "What the hell was that for?"

"Don't you ever pull a stunt like that again, dumb-ass!" I was yelling at him, to the point where I thought the moose would hear us. I quieted a bit, placing both hands on the steering wheel to remind myself that I had to stay calm. "If you ever pull a stunt like that again, you can kiss your manhood good-bye."

"What were you thinking?" Mary continued. "That animal could have come after us. Well, Car, if you don't kick him to the curb after this, he should consider himself lucky. You're always pulling these stupid stunts, shit-head. Who are you trying to impress, huh?" She sounded absolutely livid. Sure, Matt had a knack for getting himself into scraps that he shouldn't be involved with in the first place, but the tone of her voice made it seem like there was more to it. I had never heard a bit of cynicism ever come out of Mary's mouth, let alone hear anything so angry, including a string expletives to follow.

After a bit of stewing, we realized that the moose had gone. We weren't sure which direction the animal had moved in, so we decided to proceed carefully. The rest of the way we all sat in silence, Mary and I silently cursing Matt.

* * *

Lucky for us, there was only about fifteen minutes left of the drive to my parents'—mother's—house. When we arrived it was roughly midnight, which meant that most of everyone would be in bed. As we pulled through the large property gates, I gazed at the house. I had forgotten how ridiculously large the mansion was; there was no chance of discretion here. As soon as some gardener would see an extra vehicle that was worth over $30,000, talk would spread about town. I looked over the building, taking in the flood of memories that washed over me. To my surprise, my eyes showed signs of tears welling at the corners. I never, in a million years, would have thought that so much emotion would come over me before I even stepped inside the house. Not allowing myself to show signs of those tears, I helped the butler, who just stepped out, unload the car. He had already shooed Mary away from helping, but Matt had just stood there. It was as if he couldn't be bothered to help carry his own bags inside. After the butler took our bags to the front steps, he hopped in the car and drove it to the designated parking area.

_Hmm,_ I thought. _So, my mother added valet service to their responsibilities. How very 'Joan Crawford' of her._

Before any of us could turn to walk towards the door, it swung open. Next thing I knew, Rosie ran out the door and stopped dead in her tracks. She glanced between Mary and myself, obviously trying to decide which of us looked like the thirty-two-year-old version of the Lynnie she once knew and loved. Her gaze finally stopped at me, and she walked over slowly, engulfing me in a hug. I couldn't help myself. I dropped the bag I had been holding and wrapped my arms around her small frame. She smelled of the same peppermint and pipe tobacco that I remembered, which caused a large grin to stretch across my face. I was home. It took me years, but I just then realized that I was exactly where I was meant to be. I couldn't believe that I was so nervous about returning just hours earlier, when actually being there felt so right. Before I knew it, tears were trickling down my cheeks. Almost as if she could smell the salty water dribbling down my face, Rosie stepped back from our embrace and pulled a handkerchief from her blouse.

She wiped away my tears as she spoke, "We sure 'ave missed'yeh, Lynnie."

"I've missed you too, Rosie." I didn't even know what I had said until I saw a sad smile appear on her tiny, aging face. Little, tiny crows' feet appeared at the corners of her eyes as she smiled—those weren't there the last time I saw her.

I heard someone clear his or her throat, and I immediately turned to see Matt impatiently waiting to go inside. I noticed that he was shivering again; I didn't even realize that it was cold at all. All I could feel was the warmth from Rosie's welcome. I turned to give quick introductions before we went into the house.

"Rosie," I stated her name as if I were calling her to attention. "This is Mary Bingley, by best friend. She's from London—England, not Maine. I'm sure you've seen her in the society pages."

"Hi, it's so nice to finally meet you. Car has told me so much about you," Mary said holding out her hand for Rosie to take. However, Rosie had other ideas; she scooped up Mary in a big hug that could suffocate anyone. Mary was giggling—though not in a nervous way—when she was finally let go, and I took that as a good sign. That was when I paused and turned to Matt. He was looking a little worried; he was probably wondering how I would introduce him, considering the circumstances.

"And Rosie," I said, pausing for dramatic effect. "This is Mary's twin brother, and my fiancé, Matthew Bingley." Before I had even finished his name—in fact, as soon as I called him my fiancé—Rosie rushed over to Matt and pulled him into an even more suffocating bear hug. I realized then that the look of worry was more for how he would be embraced, because he had a strong grimace on his face. I didn't like the way it made him look. In fact, I didn't like the way he reacted to Rosie's greeting at all. I decided to ignore the thoughts until later, when I could discuss them with him in private.

When Rosie finally let go of Matt—he was slightly turning blue in the face—we moved our way into the mansion. I had been right earlier when I said that no one would be awake; not even my mother had bothered to stay up to greet us. That, of course, did not surprise me one tiny bit. What _did_ surprise me, however, was that there was a young boy asleep on the couch in the informal living room. We were walking through the first floor showing Matt and Mary around, when we entered the room and Rosie dropped her voice. When I noticed him there, I immediately examined his face. I had never seen a photograph of my brother, but I knew right then that it was he. The boy had chestnut brown hair with long lashes, and he was tall for his age and slender. His rosy cheeks were a beautiful crimson against his pale, ivory skin. I wanted to reach over and touch him to see if he were real, because he looked like a beautiful porcelain doll just lying there. Rosie must have noticed me admiring him, because she cleared her throat a little inconspicuously. I turned to look at her and she just smiled softly, gesturing with her head to go over to the boy.

I slowly walked to the sleeping boy and knelt next to the couch he was lying on. I brought my hand to his shoulder and touched him lightly, quickly snapping my hand back to my side. I didn't know why I reacted like that; it was as if I thought I would break him with that one touch. I brought my hand to his shoulder once more, this time gently shaking him awake as I whispered his name.

"Stephen," I whispered one more time before he opened his eyes. The boy didn't even wait for an explanation as to who I was, before he smiled sleepily and wrapped his arms around my neck. He nuzzled his head into my shoulder, falling asleep, and I sat there holding him for a good fifteen minutes as Rosie took Mary and Matt to other parts of the first floor. I realized that I had to get Stephen to bed, so I tried to nudge him awake again. When he opened his eyes again, he smiled up at me.

"Why are you so happy, Stephen?" I asked. His smile just grew and became even brighter.

"Because you're home," he answered. "I have been waiting all day for you to come. Rosie even let me stay up as long as I put my p.j.'s on. It was worth it, even if I did fall asleep."

"Ah, Rosie. I told her to keep my homecoming a secret," I answered. He seemed to be so eager to see me, talking to him was as if there was no disconnect whatsoever.

"Are you kidding," he said through a yawn. "The whole town knows. You were even invited to some gala-thing. I think it's to help raise money for the falling Maine economy. " I looked at him in bewilderment. Were all eleven year olds so well informed of the economy?

_Well, maybe if you were a Darcy_, I thought.

"Well, you need to get you to bed, Stephen," I reasoned. "Can you make it to your room alone?"

"I'll be fine. I'm the one that lives here, remember?" He stifled a yawn as he said this. His precociousness made me chuckle sadly; I knew for sure who's child he was.

When he left the room, I went to find the others. I found them chatting in the newly renovated kitchen—I could tell because it had name brand appliances that had only been released within the past year—eating cookies and drinking milk. Well, the two women were chatting, Matt was the one eating. He did that as a way to avoid "unfavorable" conversations, as he put it. He hated talking to staff, so I wasn't surprised that he was the only one not getting chummy with Rosie. When he noticed me, he looked relieved. As if I were his savior. I just took the seat next to Mary and across from Rosie and gave Matt a pointed look. I was not one to play his games; he knew exactly how I felt about his behavior towards 'the help'.

"Rosie," I interrupted. "Is it true you gave out my secret," I asked playfully.

"I only told yer brotheh," she retorted. I found this fascinating. Apparently Rosie's gossipy nature had rubbed off on little Stephen. If he were anything like my father—which I was positive he was the same exact person—he could easily make friends and get carried away.

"Hmm," was all that came out of my mouth. Finally, I remembered what I wanted to ask in the first place. "So I hear there is a gala?" I said that more as a question than a statement.

Rosie nodded her head, "Yes, Lynnie. And both of you are invited as well." She said the last part addressing Mary and Matt. Mary's face lit up like a child's in a candy store; Matt didn't look as thrilled. I was somewhat apprehensive about bringing Matt to what we Mainers called a "gala". It was certainly not the same type of gala he was used to. Sure we dressed up and all, but it wasn't that big of a deal. And I was pretty sure they hadn't changed that much in the years I was gone. Next thing I knew, we had all agreed that we wanted to go. I knew it would be interesting, but I was willing for it all to show our true characters.

* * *

**A/N:** So that was longer than my past chapters, but I'm thinking I'm going to start writing longer chapters because that's what you guys deserve. But guess what? I'm excited to announce that the Bennetts will be making an appearance in the next chapter!!!!!!!!!! So just get ready for it. Please R&R I would appreciate it. Thanks!


	4. I Know You By Heart

**A/N:** Thanks so much for the reviews, guys! They make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.  Just to let you know, so that people don't get discouraged, I condensed the prologue and the first chapter. Nothing was changed except that they are now both under Chapter 1. As I said before, this chapter is going to introduce the Bennetts—well at least some of them, and Carolyn won't know who they are just yet. What I didn't mention is that we will have our first 'glimpse' at Wickham—she makes an appearance at the funeral. Another unexpected character makes an appearance as well.

Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, my estimated age for Carolyn is 32I think I might note that in a future chapter.

Mr. Bagel is a real bagel shop franchise—and yes, they make everything on location—which I don't ownthey make the best bagels in the world.

So, here we go…

**Disclaimer**: Jane Austen called; she wants her story back.

I don't own Hello Kitty.

I don't own _I'll Be Seeing You_ by Billie Holiday

* * *

**Chapter Four**

When I woke up the next morning, I was extremely exhausted. I had tossed and turned the whole night fighting jet lag, and I ended up getting—maybe—two hours of sleep. I had forgotten to close the curtains the night before, so a very grumpy Matt woke me by pulling the pillow from under my head and placing it over his face with a muffled groan. He was the type of sleeper that needed absolute darkness, while I was the type that could fall asleep under any condition. He was tossing and adjusting his pillow to cover his eyes from as soon as the sun came up. It didn't bother me at first, but as the morning wore on I had enough. Still in a daze about what day it was, I reached for my cell phone on the bedside table and looked at the screen to check the time. It wasn't as late as I thought it was—it was only 8:32, and apparently it was Friday. I would have sworn up and down that it was Saturday. Pulling myself out of bed, I drew the curtains for Matt; he sighed in response and rolled onto his stomach. I was still exhausted, but I figured that I was not going to fall back asleep; so I decided to get ready. I sauntered into my private bathroom that was attached to my room, and I quietly closed the door behind me. Leaning over the sink, with both hands on the counter, I breathed out a long and deep sigh. It was the day of my father's funeral, and it was going to be a long, miserable day.

The shower was difficult for me to operate, because I couldn't remember how the knobs worked. It had been so long since I last used that shower, I was lucky I didn't scald myself with my experimentations with the holt and cold. As I was lathering my hair, I turned and noticed that my Hello Kitty shower radio was still suction-cupped to the stall wall. The corners of my lips curved upwards into a slight smile, when I realized it still worked. I bought it when I was fifteen, thinking that it was _the _coolest thing. My mother, however, despised it, saying that proper young ladies didn't waste their time with childish cartoon characters. Shaking the memory out of my mind, I sang along quietly with the radio and fighting back tears until I was finished with my shower.

After I dressed, I made my way down the stairs and into the kitchen. I tried to add a little bounce in my step to lift my spirits, as well as the others around me; Lord knew we would need whatever distraction we could get that day. When I turned into the room, I saw that Rosie was sitting at the kitchen table reading, keeping company with Stephen while he ate his scrambled eggs—he was missing school for the day due to the funearl. I strode over to Rosie and kissed her on the cheek and said my 'good-mornings'. Making my way over to the refrigerator, I found exactly what I was looking for—cream cheese. That meant that there were bagels in the house!

"Rosie, I can't believe you ordered bagels for me," I said, sounding impressed.

"Those aren't for you," Stephen said.

He said it in such a matter of fact way, and without looking up from his plate, that it startled me a little. He sure seemed comfortable enough with me to be frank; it was odd to me, but I liked it. I was always raised to be a reserved child that only spoke when spoken to. As an adult, I had continued to be like that around people I didn't really know. In fact, I still have my moments.

"Who are they for, then?" I asked, spotting the bag of bagels on the counter.

I found an onion bagel, cut it in half, and popped it in the toaster. I then hopped on the counter and looked at my eleven-year-old brother, waiting for a response.

"Yer not the only who likes bagels anymohe, Lynnie," answered Rosie. She grinned as she made a motion towards Stephen. "He loves 'em—it's like you neveh left. He eats 'em ev'ry day, sometimes twice. I have to have 'em special-delivehed ev'ry mo'ning just foh him."

"Huh, so we do have something in common besides blood," I said to a grinning Stephen. "Well I'm glad Mom and Dad were left with another stubborn eater."

"Oh, don't worry, Sis," he retorted. "No one will ever be as stubborn as you."

I internally grimaced at his term of endearment for me; I didn't know if I was willing to have him call me 'Sis' just yet. It seemed a bit too soon for that. And on top of that, I was pretty sure he took a jab at me—I didn't know him well enough to know if he was being sarcastic. Just as Stephen spoke, the bagel popped up, and I went to spread cream cheese on it. I wasn't that hungry when I first came down, but nothing tasted so glorious in all of my days. It was so hard to come by bagels when I was jet setting all over the world. The only time I ever got one was when I was in D.C., and even then it wasn't that frequent—and honestly, they weren't even that good. Nobody made a bagel like Mr. Bagel. It was a Maine bagel shop franchise, but they made all their bagels and cream cheese on location. It was perfection.

My heavenly bliss was interrupted when my mother entered the kitchen, demanding that she speak to me—alone. She stood by the stove on the island, looking as if she felt uncomfortable in her setting. I figured she didn't venture into an area where the staff situated themselves that often; she never did when I was around.

"Carolyn," she said my name as if calling me to attention. "We need to make this quick, as the caterers will be here shortly." She looked at me with piercing eyes, as if to bore holes of guilt into my body.

_Oh, shit, _I thought. _Here it is. I guess we can't avoid this conversation any longer, though.._

"What is the meaning of this?" She asked. "You think you can just show up here after years of not talking to us, and expect to be welcomed with open arms?" Her fury was quite evident in her voice then, as if I hadn't realized how angry she was from before.

"Mother, I wasn't expecting anything. I—" I started to defend myself, but she cut me off.

"I know that you have a good job that needs your constant attention, Carolyn, but this is not a hotel. You brought people with you. I do not even know who these people are!" Her voice was at borderline screeching levels, so I tried to calm her.

"Mother, I came with my best friend and my fiancé. They wanted to pay their respects, since I was so close to Dad," I said in as calm a voice as I possibly could.

Matt and Mary were extremely lucky at that particular point that the house was so large, because my mother began screeching like a banshee.

"YOU BECAME ENGAGED AND DID NOT TELL ME? HOW DO I EVEN KNOW WHO THIS MAN IS, OR IF HE IS FROM A GOOD FAMILY? HOW AM I TO KNOW THAT OUR FAMILY WILL BE SAFE FROM SCRUTINY IF THINGS DO NOT TURN OUT WELL? WHAT IF YOU GET DIVORCED AND YOU DID NOT HAVE A PRE-NUPTUAL AGREEMENT, WHAT THEN? YOU COULD VERY WELL BE RUINING THIS FAMILY JUST FROM COMING HOME, CAROLYN!"

She stopped her rant abruptly, but her chest still rose and fell with quick heaves. I figured that whatever she was ranting about,—I usually stopped paying attention when her voice reached decibels only dogs could hear—it really had nothing to do with me, but with my father's death. At least, that was what I led myself to believe.

"Catherine," I said. I only called her by her first name when I had to convey that I meant business. "I am marrying Matthew Bingley—his sister Mary, my best friend, is here with us as well. You know nothing will happen to shame our family, because Matthew would need a pre-nup for _me_ to sign. And don't look at me like that—you know exactly who Mary and Matthew Bingley are. They are Prime Minister Bingley's children—of England."

Name-dropping tended to work well with my mother. Instead of shooting daggers out of her eyes at me, now she had a glazed look about her face. I assumed that it meant she was visualizing my future with the Prime Minister's son. I was treading lightly, but I also knew that I was in clear waters from then on.

"Matthew Bingley?" She asked me, finally looking at me in the eyes. "For Christ's sake, Carolyn, why did you not say so?"

And with that she called for Rosie and told Stephen to come finish his breakfast. My mother left the kitchen directly after, and she left me blinking at what had just occurred.

"Woah, that was a doozy," Stephen said, returning to his eggs. "I didn't know she had a set of lungs like that. The only time she ever raises her voice is when she wants something from Rosie or someone. Nice going, Sis."

"Thanks, Stephen," I remarked sarcastically. He made a face at me, as if he were disgusted by something I said. "What?" I asked innocently.

"Don't call me Stephen. It's too stuffy," he stated, shivering as he said 'Stephen'. "Just call me Stevie, okay?" I smiled at him. I really liked this kid. I knew I had to love him, but I really, truly liked him. I nodded in agreement, thinking of how I was completely cheered up by him.

"So where's Rosie, then?" I asked, surprised to not have seen her since my mother had called her.

"Oh, Matt and Mary came down when Mom was yelling at you," he stated. I winced at the thought of them hearing what my mother had said about shame and pre-nups. "She quickly ushered them out to the rest of the house for a tour," he said as if to reassure my worry.

I quietly sighed at that, and was grateful that Rosie was quick on her feet. Stevie and I continued to talk, sharing highlights of our childhoods until we were interrupted by muffled voices heading towards the kitchen. The voices grew louder and within seconds, the kitchen door swung open revealing Rosie walking in dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Before I could ask her what had happened, Matt followed her in.

"All I'm saying, Rosie, is that it's hard to understand you when you speak like that," he said while walking over to the table and taking a seat next to Stevie. "As long as I'm here, you are forbidden to speak in that God-awful accent; just learn to articulate, will you? Now, Stevie, what do you say we catch a few cartoons while waiting for everyone to get ready?"

The entire room, aside from Rosie, turned to look at him with disbelief. It was one thing for my mother to mistreat the servants; but for a guest, that was downright disrespectful to the people of the house. Stevie looked like he wanted to kick Matt in the shins, and Mary—who walked in right before Matt's last comment—had her jaw hanging wide open. Matt just looked around at us as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

"What?" he asked, seeming slightly confused by our reactions.

I could not believe he had been so rude. I never noticed an attitude like that from him before, but then again I was too much of a lovesick puppy to notice. I was beginning to understand why some good people of society only tolerated my fiancé.

* * *

We rode to St. Anne's Catholic Church in a black limo with tinted windows—so much for being inconspicuous while grieving. The whole service I sat there with a veil of tears over my eyes: I couldn't see far enough in front of me to even walk up to the altar to receive the Eucharist. The priest was kind enough to come down to me to give me the Host, so I didn't have to move. I was so stiff; all I could do was squeeze Mary's hand during the readings. After what had happened in the kitchen earlier that morning, I wasn't going anywhere near Matt; he just would have added to my anxieties. The scent from all the flowers just made me feel as though I was suffocating; the air was so stuffy and thick in the church I just wanted to run out screaming. Unfortunately, I wasn't going anywhere. If anything, I had to be there for Stevie: he was the only other person that understood my relationship with my father—he had a similar, although veiled, one with Dad.

After we made our way to the cemetery, I couldn't help but read all the epitaphs I walked by—I was curious to see if they belonged to anyone I had once known. One name I did recognize, but I immediately wished that I hadn't. The name was Lydia Wickham, a woman my father knew long ago. To my surprise, she was disturbingly close to our family lot.

I found a seat in one of the three chairs the funeral servers provided, and I looked out to all the people that turned up. I knew my father was well liked and respected, but I never realized to what extreme. There must have been at least two hundred people standing around the coffin and flowers, waiting to pay their last respects.

As I scanned the crowd, my eyes rested on a young man that looked to be about my age. He was standing with two other men that seemed to be close to his age and an older gentleman that appeared to be about my father's. They were, all four, undoubtedly handsome.

_They must be related,_ I thought.

The men all looked similar, although one had blond hair; the older gentleman had salt and pepper hair; and the two other young men had short brown curls. The one I had originally noticed had brown hair, and something about him made him more intriguing than the other three. I must have been gazing at him for some time, because the priest distinctly cleared his throat at me. It was supposed to be my turn to say a quick prayer in honor of my father; except, unfortunately, my mind was elsewhere. I looked back out to the young, intriguing man, and he had a slight smile on his face.

_Oh, did he notice me staring? _I wondered. I stammered a bit trying to find the words, but I eventually came across the words I was looking for. I then began to recite the _Prayer of Saint Francis._

"Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace," I began.

As I continued, with tear filled eyes, I carried on scanning the crowd. I was astonished at the people that were there: many of my father's employees, the governor, the two state senators, the two representatives, and general townspeople, as well as close family and friends. My father had a vision that he was proud of, and he wanted to share it with everyone he knew. He was a man that was proud to be from a small state that was on the water, and my father knew that the sailboats his great-grandfather started making were representative of that. My father was never happier than when he was making sure that his great-grandfather's legacy was being carried through, and he always kept to the original designs and styles. His motto was to always look to what people wanted, but to only oblige them if it meant your dignity would stay intact. He was a very proud man, but not in a vain way. He took pride in knowing that his business gave jobs to people and helped the starving economy, and he never fired anyone unless it was absolutely necessary. I always marveled at how much he cared, while he still had a strong and successful business in the sailing industry. It never occurred to me how cutthroat the business world was until I moved to Boston. I was quite sheltered in that respect, but I was also glad I had that kind of exposure. It didn't hurt to be reminded of how people are supposed to be treated—like people. Those were values that he instilled in everyone he met, no matter who the person was.

I turned my attention back to the mystery man and noticed he was looking right at me; I quickly shifted my gaze out of the embarrassment of getting caught. My gaze suddenly paused on a woman with styled chestnut brown hair that waved and cold, green eyes; she was standing by Lydia Wickham's grave. My eyes narrowed into slits as she glared back at me, and she had a menacing grin that I wanted to slap right off her face. It was as if she knew exactly what her presence did to my insides—I wanted to vomit at the sight of her. When I finished my prayer, I quietly and discreetly made my way to where she was standing. The last thing I wanted was a scene, so I didn't just tackle—as much as I wanted to. I should have thought better of it, knowing her, but I was not thinking straight and decided to confront the issue.

"Miss Wickham," I said, grabbing her elbow firmly and moving her to a less crowded area. As we walked together, she wiggled her arm out of my grasp and grimaced at the "pain" which I was sure she was faking—or not (I don't really know my own strength when I'm angry like that).

"I am sure you know me well enough to call me by my first name now, Carolyn," she said to me. We found a spot that was slightly covered by trees and out of the way, but it was still within the hearing range of some people if we spoke at normal decibels.

"All right, Meredith," I hissed back. I didn't want to give her that satisfaction, but she had called me by _my_ first name. "Your presence here is very inappropriate, and I wish you had reconsidered coming here today. Do not expect to be permitted into my home for the reception later; you _will_ be turned away by security. After all, it is private property, and I can call the authorities if need be." I couldn't help the look I was giving her, but my guess is that it was somewhat along the lines of homicidal.

"Please—don't be so melodramatic, Lynnie," she said with a hint of mischief that was a bit louder than I had wished.

"_Don't_. Call. Me. Lynnie," I whispered with malice. I was trying with all my might not to slap her.

"Why should I go? He was my father, too."

She had gone too far; she had said that part loud enough to turn some heads. I was pretty sure that people were beginning to whisper about what a bitch I was to ask someone to leave the funeral, especially a relative. Another thing people would whisper about was her not-so-subtle usage of the word 'father' when describing the man they came to pay respects to. With that, I grabbed the woman's arm—a little too roughly to be respectful, at that point—and I proceeded to pull her away from the crowd. Her loud renditions of 'let me go' and 'you bitch' were well heard by most of the crowd, and I didn't care one bit. My father's dignity was more important to me.

Eventually, after some struggling, I felt a presence behind me. I turned to see my cousin Edie had put a hand on my shoulder; her poise lifted some stress off my shoulders. Meredith must have noticed my sudden change in character, for she turned around and an expression of surprise spread across her face.

"Fitzwilliam," Meredith said in amazement.

"Wickham," Edie retorted in a nonchalant tone. "You sure have some nerve, showing your face here. I'm surprised you had balls enough to do it; I'm impressed, really. But then again, you really have a flair for making an entrance into people's lives," she continued with a hint of sarcasm.

I absolutely loved my cousin. She could keep her cool in any situation, embarrassed or not. She was a publicist for many celebrities, so she traveled as much as I did. We visited with each other whenever we happened to be in the same country, which kept me connected. If she had not taken the reigns from there and had Meredith escorted out by the police, I would have lost my nerve. I would have completely gone berserk; I wouldn't have cared what had happened as long as she was away from my father. The phrase is 'rest in peace', not 'rest with the skeletons in the closet still haunting you in the afterlife'.

When I returned to the area of my father's burial, I noticed that the majority of eyes were following me. One pair, a chocolate brown pair, stared back at me, as I looked around. I realized that I was in close enough proximity to look the mystery man in the face—and notice his gorgeous brown eyes. That's what was so intriguing about him: it was his eyes. I looked back at him intently, only to notice that he had a particular look about his face. At first, I couldn't tell what it was. Suddenly, I had that stomach-dropping feeling—he looked disgusted. He was disgusted by my behavior.

_But he doesn't even know the circumstances,_ I thought. _How could he possibly form an opinion when he has no clue? _

The only thing was that I could not figure out, for the life of me, why I cared what he thought.

* * *

After the burial service, nearly everyone gathered at Darcy Manor—a name my mother dubbed the mansion when she first moved there as a new bride. Of course this was not a burden, for the house was far larger than anyone could have expected. People would come and go from Darcy Manor almost weekly, but its grandeur was never truly realized until that day. Even with everyone that I loved there, I could not take the constant condolences. Every person I talked to looked at me in a way that made me feel even more melancholy; I didn't need anything like that. I was standing alone in a corner, when I noticed that I had the prefect opportunity to slip away. I couldn't figure anywhere that would allow me an unassuming exit, so I scanned the room for an escape. Finally, my eyes fell upon cherry wood double doors that would otherwise be open. Every other parlor and greeting room was opened into the great hall, but this room remained closed. It was my father's study.

I moved towards the room with such care not to be seen—it didn't hurt that the caterer declared luncheon served, and I was left unattended. I tried for the door and realized it was locked; fortunately, my father left two other people and myself with the knowledge of his best-kept secret hiding place. I felt behind the frame of an Edgar Degas original and found a flap that slid like a pendulum to open. I grabbed the cold piece of metal inside and produced it, seeing that it was the same spare key that opened the double doors when I was a young girl. I situated the key in one of the doors and turned slowly; hearing the click, I hesitated to turn the handle. I don't know what made me stop—maybe it was the knowledge that no one would greet me on the other side—but I overcame the force and stepped inside. I made sure to close the doors lightly and lock them, so as not to notify anyone that I was there. Without even turning and seeing a vacant room, I felt an instant loneliness wash over me. I stood there for a minute, absorbing the emptiness.

The smell of peppermint and tobacco still lingered in the large, mahogany room. Running my left hand over the finished wood of his desk, I opened the top drawer to my right. I smiled at the two hand-carved tobacco pipes that lay there, with a custom tin of tobacco in one compartment and peppermints in another. Dad would ask Rosie into his study late afternoons, and they would sit and smoke together, talking about Stevie and myself. Closing the drawer, I sauntered over to a record player and did not even check to see what was on the table, before I placed the pin on the vinyl. I turned my back to the player and went to sit at my father's desk—in his chair that smelled of him. A slow, steady piano introduction played, followed by a trumpet harmony.

"_I'll be seeing you in all your familiar places…_" began the beautiful, melodic voice. A tear trickled down my cheek when I recognized Billie Holiday's voice: my father always said you would never hear anyone sing with as much conviction and humility, at the same time, as she did. He sure was right.

"_…And when the night is new, I'll be looking at the moon, but I'll be seeing you…_" After the last line, I lost it—I just blubbered like a baby that had its favorite doll taken away. Of course, it makes sense that I would cry; but I was a Darcy, and we never cried. My mother would claim it as a sign of weakness. I sat there crying until I was all dried out, and I couldn't produce anything but arid sobs. I couldn't move so I just waited with my head resting on my arms, while I was hunched over the desk that held everything that was my father. I basked in the silence: I would not be disturbed by his shelves of books that told great tales, or by his many filing cabinets that held the life stories of every one of his employees. My eyes closed involuntarily, and I drifted into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

A knock on the double doors woke me, and the knocking became more frantic with each second that passed in which I didn't answer them. Still groggy, and with an increasing headache, I made my way over to the source of the vile sound and opened the door to the right. Rosie looked relieved, when I examined her face.

"Oh good, you _were_ in there," she expressed with a sigh. It felt unusual and unnatural to hear her speak without her accent. "We've been looking for you everywhere. Matthew has been worried sick about you—" she rolled her eyes at that statement. "—Look, the family lawyer is here—we are to go over your father's assets. Everyone else in the main dining hall, so just fallow me."

We walked through the house and passed the informal parlor; apparently all the guests had disappeared while I was in solitude. Matt was sitting on the large couch, watching television, when he noticed me, and shot up. I motioned for him to stay where he was; he made a face, which looked like a pout, and sat back down. I was starting to notice more and more childlike tendencies from him, which annoyed me.

_Why hadn't I noticed these before? _

When we entered the informal dining hall, I saw my mother, Stevie, a few servants, and Rosie take seats around the head of the table. At the head sat the family lawyer, Agatha Collins, with a haughty look upon her face. She was thirty-one years old, working for my family, and had no life besides said family. The woman truly was, what one would call, a brown-noser. Whatever came out of her mouth was either a compliment to the upper crests, or an insult to anyone that made less than six figures. Most of the time, she was just downright lacked decorum.

"Good afternoon, Agatha," I said before she could begin. I wanted to lay some rules down before she could get any of her two cents in, and before we commenced. "If you don't mind, I—and I'm sure my mother—would appreciate it if you read anything that pertained to Stevie first. We do not want to expose him to anything inappropriate."

I looked to my mother for support on the matter, and she nodded her head in agreement without saying a word. That morning's scrap with Meredith must have left a mark in her mind, because I knew she was thinking the same thing. Anything inappropriate that would come out of the will would certainly have to do with her; we were not ready to exploit Stevie's innocence.

"That is certainly fine, Miss Darcy," Agatha claimed. I could tell she was slightly annoyed, but it didn't vex me. My brother's virtue was more important to me than catering to her. "All right, here it is. 'In accordance to the signed and documented will of Mr. Charles William Darcy, Stephen Fitzwilliam Darcy is to inherit the asset known as Darcy & Sons, Inc. and be awarded the position of Co-President. If at the time of Mr. Darcy's death, Stephen is under the age of twenty-five, the position of Co-President will be awarded to a Miss Carolyn Fitzwilliam Darcy (the company will still, however, be under the name of Stephen Fitzwilliam Darcy). The position will only be awarded to the daughter of Mr. Darcy if she accepts; otherwise said position will be passed onto the current Vice President until the Young Darcy is of age.' This basically means that Little Stevie will inherit all profit that comes in from Darcy & Sons, Inc. that does not go into the company itself. In other words: you will be all set for life." She said that last sentence as if she was clarifying for a five-year-old.

"Wow," exclaimed Stevie; he was absolutely struck into shock. "So, Sis, what do you say? Will you be Co-Pres? Please?" I couldn't refuse his pleads; I remembered the promise I made myself about making sure I didn't waste time getting to know him better.

"Of course I'll take it," I said, beaming. Stevie mirrored my expression and let out a 'yes!' with a fist pump in the air. My mother turned to smile at me, making sure to add a hint of triumph to her face. Agatha then broke the awkward pause that followed.

"Well, that concludes all that is in reference to Stephen. He may exit the room now," she stated as if she was in control of the entire situation. After Stevie left, she leaned in close as if to indicate the need for discretion.

"I do have some concerns to address with you now, Miss Darcy," Agatha said, leaning towards me. It made me want to lean away in the other direction, but I kept control and didn't disrespect her. "There is an issue that has been brought to my attention, as of late. As we all know the country is in a recession, and people are doing fewer recreational activities. I'm not going to beat around the bush, Miss Darcy. Frankly, the company is in danger: it's close to filing for brankruptsy. Your father refused to fire anyone, which has contributed to its major debts." I was struck with this information as if it were a blow to the head; it was the last thing I expected her to say.

"What do you suggest I do?" I asked, unable to make sense of what she had said.

"Well, you will have to confer with the board, but I have a few suggestions. One is that you let some people go—"

"Out of the question," I interrupted a bit harshly. I wanted to continue my father's legacy, not destroy it.

"Well, another option is to sell the company before it goes under," Agatha suggested cautiously. I thought it over; I would rather sell the company and leave the profits to the families of the employees than just lay people off. My mother must have seen my thought process, because she immediately interrupted my deliberation with her own idea.

"No," she said sternly. "You are not getting rid of your father's—my _husband_'s—legacy. That is the only living thing that we have left of him; we need to keep it, if not for your brother's sake, then for mine."

"Mother," I said in disbelief. I knew better than to think she actually cared for my father's legacy. "If you're trying to save the company for money reasons, that's just selfish."

"Oh no, Mrs. Darcy," Agatha interject. "Your husband's _personal_ assets are not affected, you will still inherit _quite_ the sum."

"His personal assets?" I asked, mortified. "Are you insinuating that my father dipped into the company's profits?"

"No, no, no, Miss Darcy," she recovered. "It's just that he kept his personal money affairs separate from his business's. He did, however, try to help the company out of his own pocket. Everything economically related to the business is recorded perfectly and accurately in the books. I would not worry in the least. Now Mrs. Darcy, he did leave a large sum to charities to help the falling economy, particularly that of Maine. One thing to remember, though, is that he left you a sum of $15 million. You and Stephen will be well cared for. Stephen also has his trust fund still, as do you, Miss Darcy; those remained untouched."

My mother let out a sigh of relief, but one thing was still on her mind. Being sure that we had similar thoughts, I took the initiative to inquire of the person that stuck in the back of our minds.

"And what of my half-sister, Meredith Wickham?" I asked. My mother reached for my hand; it was a gesture of empathy that I hadn't felt from her since I was a young child.

"Your father asked that she be left with nothing, due to past circumstances," Agatha replied. Throughout the afternoon, the arrogant lawyer continued to list off inheritances, including the set of pipes and tobacco that were to go to Rosie.

I had never felt such a worry lift from my shoulders in all my life. There was a possibility that Stephen, who in his eleven years had not heard a reference to Meredith, would never have to meet his other sister.

* * *

**A/N:** So, this was a wicked long one for me. What do you guys think? I hope it worked out well in people's minds as to what was going on. I also hope that the introduction of characters wasn't too overwhelming. Please read and review, and tell me what you think! Hearing from you all makes me happy.


	5. The Lighthouse's Tale

A/N: Hey there! Sorry it took so long to post an update, college life and work have taken it's toll on me. Well for this chapter, brace yourselves. It's the "country ball", when the Bingleys and the Bennetts officially meet. There are going to be some descriptions of the area where they are, so that you get a better idea of what draws Mary to the area in the first place.

To answer one reader's concerns about Carolyn finding David (the Elizabeth character) attractive right off the bat; this is because she gets bored with the "perfect" look. You know what I'm talking about, the look that most of society deems as extremely attractive: blond and blue-eyed. David right off the bat intrigued her because he seemed to have much more depth in his eyes, while Aiden (the Jane character) appeared absolutely gorgeous but lacked depth to her. To answer another reader's question about Anne Fitzwilliam marrying Mr. Bennett: no, they didn't marry. Things will be explained in later chapters, if it's unclear.

Disclaimer: Jane Austen owns a whole lot of stories, including mine.

_Travel Light_ is a name that I made up for the travel show that Carolyn and Matt work on, if it in any way is the name of a real travel show, I didn't mean it.

I don't know if there is a Mariott in Augusta, Maine, but I put one there anyway.

To those of you that don't know Pat Benetar, Corey Feldman, and Debbie Gibson: look them up. They were 80's icons, and are quite entertaining.

* * *

I woke the next morning with a start. I had been dreaming of my father—quite vividly, might I add—and at the end he was stabbed in he heart. The moment I saw the knife push into his ribs was when I opened my eyes. I had tears streaming down like a hose; it caused such a veil I couldn't even see five inches in front of me. Matt had apparently heard me wake and turned to his side and faced the opposite way. When he realized that I had been crying, he turned abruptly and pulled me into his arms. He was warm and soft, but it didn't feel right. It felt as though I didn't have a special mold for me; I just didn't feel safe in Matt's arms—something I had always expected one should feel when they are absolutely head-over-heals for someone. At that moment I realized I was lucky our engagement hadn't really gone public: Page Six made no reference to it yet. It occurred to me that I could never marry Matthew Bingley: we were not compatible at all. He wanted to get ahead in life by making himself part of a social circle that I didn't want to associate with, while I just wanted to have a happy life—maybe have some kids, which he didn't want. Sure he said he wanted kids whenever I cooed over babies I saw in stores, but I could see in his eyes that he really didn't like children. I wanted a husband that actually wanted what I wanted—and meant what he said.

It was becoming especially evident that we weren't compatible, whenever he treated the household staff with such disrespect. Not to mention that Friendship was a small town, and the majority of its inhabitants worked for my father in one way or another. If we were to marry, he would have to feel comfortable venturing outside of Rosings Park—which was the large hillside estate that Darcy Manor sat in. Matt could easily stay in the park the rest of our lives, considering it was much rather like a college campus than a hill with a few houses on it. There were several other houses in the park that belonged to my family, one of which was supposed to be mine if I ever decided to live in Friendship. I always dreamed that whomever I married would show sincerity to the people that cared for his- and myself.

_Why didn't I see much of his behavior before?_ I thought to myself. _He is far too mean and proud of himself, and he uses his family name to get what he wants._

I sat up in bed and looked at him, and I mean _really_ looked at him. My decision was made. By the end of the week, I would end the relationship with Matt. It only made sense to me. He needed someone who fit in with him. I certainly didn't—I didn't even have a special crook in his arms, and his chest didn't mold to me perfectly like I hoped it would with the person I married. I was so puppy-dog-in-love with our _relationship_ that I had never noticed that we didn't actually work. All I ever concentrated on was how great of a catch he was. And now all I could concentrate on was how it was over. All I had to do was find a way to explain it to Matt.

I got out of bed and walked to my bathroom to shower. I was quietly singing along to my Hello Kitty shower radio when there was a knock on the bedroom door. It was rather loud and chipper sounding—if a knock could ever sound chipper. I heard a fairly loud thud and an expletive release in what sounded like Matt's voice. I chuckled when I figured that the knock must have startled him awake, forcing him to bump his head on the headboard. As I turned the water off I could hear Mary's excited chatter in the bedroom as she discussed sightseeing with Matt. With my eyes closed, due to having water in them, I reached out of the shower for a bathrobe. I pulled it on and stepped into the bedroom, only to spot a fully dressed Mary snickering at my entrance.

"Hello, Kitty!" she greeted me by staring me up and down. I looked down to find that I had on the robe that I wore as a young adult.

"I couldn't see, I had soap in my eyes," I tried to reason by half telling the truth.

"Right—" she answered with a smirk. "Well I was just telling Matty here that you need to take us to see the sights. We are, after all, on the famous Maine Down East coast. Why not show us some of the hot tourist spots, eh Car? I mean, who knows when I'll ever get the chance again?" Her English accent seemed extremely strong that morning—I figured it must have been due to her excitement.

She gave a giddy squeal when I retorted by saying that I would drive her wherever she would like to visit, within reasonable limits. As expected, Matt grumbled at the idea of going into "the wilderness" as he called it. I only reminded him that the real 'wilderness' of Maine started just a few miles north of Bangor. He just gave me an exasperated look.

* * *

The lighthouse we pulled up towards was the largest I had ever seen. Matt snorted when he looked up and commented on the fact that it looked the same as the others we had seen. We had spent the last three hours driving up the coast and getting out at all the lighthouses along the way, but in all the years I had lived in Maine I had never seen one that tall. As I stared upwards, shielding my eyes from the unseasonably warm sun, I could hear Mary excitedly clicking away at her camera. After a few minutes her snapping stopped abruptly, and she called to me. I looked down to where Mary was standing and she quickly snapped a photo. I stuck my tongue out at her, which only made it worse.

"Hey now, you're the new co-president of Darcy & Sons. Don't you think there should be a picture of you on the cover of next month's issue of the company's journal? I'll do the picture; right here is actually quite fitting."

"I don't know, Mary. Isn't it quite vain to have my picture on the cover of my own magazine?" I asked. Again, I heard a snort come from the direction where Matt stood.

"It's not _your _magazine, Car, it's the company's," she reasoned. "Besides, I'll do it for free, since I _am_ your best friend and all."

Her attempts to reason with me finally had me cave-in. It didn't help, however, that she kept taking candid shots. I figured that cooperating would get me a better picture on the cover, and how could I turn down a free photo shoot with the world's most famous photographer? Because of her fame, Mary was quite wealthy in her own right. Without the Bingley money, she was worth more than I was without the Darcy money. It was no surprise then, that when she was taking a picture of me in front of the lighthouse; she spotted a house in the distance that she had to buy. Mary had been looking for a summer home for ages, and she claimed that she had just found the perfect one. Before I could tell what she was doing, Mary found her way up the light keeper's front steps and rapped on the door. A few moments later, a man in his mid sixties opened the door a few inches and poked his head through.

"Can I help yer, with anythin'?" he asked.

"Actually, Sir, you can be of great service to me. You see that great, white house over there," Mary pointed out across the bay. The man seemed taken back by her forwardness, not to mention her English accent. He finally stepped out onto his porch and tried to find where she was pointing. "Can you tell me if anyone lives there?"

"Ah," he sighed. "That there is the Nethe'field Mansion. No one lives there now; the family's been gone foh ages. It's now in the care of my son, Michael Lucas. He's the lawyeh that's the executor of the property."

"Do you know if I can go and have a look at it? I'm actually interested in buying it," Mary confessed.

The man gave her a quizzical look, then sighed, "Oh, alright. There isn't a next o' kin anyway. Why don't I jump inter my truck and you folks can follow me inter town. The town's Waldoboro, and the mansion is just a few miles out—I'm sorry," the man stated. "I believe I didn't catch yer name."

"Oh, sorry. I'm Mary Bingley," she answered and stuck out her hand, which he obliged. "And—this is my friend Carolyn Darcy, and that's my brother Matthew Bingley."

"Scott Lucas—pleased ter meet yah, Mary," he said with a genuinely wide smile.

After the exchange the man hopped into an old Chevy pick-up and waved for the rest of us to follow him into town. The drive was much like the same as the others; there were trees, trees, and more trees. Matt had no problem pointing this out to Mary and me, but we both ignored him. When we finally pulled into an area that looked like it could be home to more than one house, we found that the 'Welcome to Waldoboro' sign greeted us soon after. Our vehicles traveled few miles up the road, and it soon became clear that we were in a downtown area. Mr. Lucas parked in front of a strip of small buildings that hugged each other, one of which read 'Lucas Law' on the storefront window. The three of us in the Lexus soon followed suit, and I noticed that our SUV soon attracted much attention. Even a plain looking man that appeared to be in his early thirties had come to the window of 'Lucas Law'. When he noticed that Mr. Lucas was with us, he came out and greeted him.

"Hey, Dad," he said. "What brings you in today—who are your friends here?"

"Michael, this young lady he'ah," he said indicating Mary, "is lookin' to talk to you about the Nethe'field Mansion."

"Netherfield, huh? No one's lived there for years; there is no next of kin that we can find," replied Michael with a smile; I couldn't help but notice how friendly everyone was, though I was still quite shy. "I've been trying to sell it for ages, but no one out here could really afford a place like that."

"Well, that's good news for me! I'm Mary Bingley, by the way. This is Carolyn Darcy and my brother Matthew," Mary replied.

"Wait, you're Carolyn Darcy? As in Darcy & Sons? As in _Travel Light_?" Michael asked. I just answered with a curt nod; I knew that I should have been more inviting, but new people tended to make me clam up. "So that must make you _the_ Matthew Bingley, her costar!"

"Yes, well, do you travel often?" Matt asked in a haughty tone.

"Unfortunately, no."

"Hmm," he replied. "Yes, how unfortunate." That comment had my elbow make subtle contact with Matt's ribcage, which was only noticed by Matt for obvious reasons.

After a few more minutes of small talk, we all climbed into our vehicles—with both Lucas's using the old Chevy truck—and drove out to the mansion. When we got there, the awe factor was only increased by the actual size of the building—or buildings, I should say. The main house was an antique design that mimicked the great plantations of the Deep South. It was a brilliant white color; which looked like a fresh coat of paint, though the coats on the minor house had been seriously neglected. The grounds contained a couple of buildings—much like Rosings Park—that were meant for the general use of guests and grounds-keepers. A walk to the rear of the property revealed that the estate had its own beachfront, with a view of the lighthouse we had just visited. The grass and general shrubbery appeared to be well groomed, but still gave the illusion of wild flowering. The general splendor of the grounds could not match the intensity of the blue in the sky and the ocean; you could barely tell where the water ended and the sky began. It truly was a sight to behold.

After admiring the exterior, we could not wait to see if the interior was as beautiful. While we made our way through the mansion, the group all took notice of the perfect little details that fail to make their appearances in modern architecture. As we sauntered from room to room, Mary's face grew brighter and brighter. She could barely contain her excitement when she realized that there was a separate guesthouse. Both houses, it seemed were preserved in perfect condition. The appliances were the only things that needed to be replaced. After the final walk-through of the grounds, Mary enthusiastically expressed her deepest wishes to be the "mistress", as she called it, of the Netherfield Mansion. Her use of the term only made me roll my eyes at her insistence in playing-up her "Englishness," as we called it. Mary pondered and expressed even further that she really wanted the estate. I tried to persuade her to take her time on the decision, but my efforts were in vain. It was quite clear that she was to buy the property, no matter the cost.

"So, how much are you willing to give for her?" Michael asked.

Mary looked at me a little puzzled before I clarified for her, "He wants to know how much you are willing to pay for the property."

"Oh," she said. She walked over to Michael and whispered something in his ear.

"Now that's for the entire property?" he asked. Mary just nodded in reply. "Well then, it seems you bought yourself Netherfield Mansion!"

Mary's squeals could have been heard up and down the coast with how loud and excited she was. She even so much as jumped to hug Michael and Scott, kissing both on the cheek. My best friend then came over to me and shrieked some more, forcing me to squeal with her. She seemed as thrilled as I was when I got tickets to see Michael Jackson in concert—back when I was in high school. One thing that never ceased to amaze me about Mary was how she got overly excited about little things all the time; it was her best and her worst characteristic.

* * *

The drive inland to Augusta was a long one. The trip itself was only about an hour, but we had to endure Matt's whines and complaints that made it seem we were in the SUV for eons. It took all the composure I had to not reach over to the passenger seat and duct tape his mouth shut. Well that—and I didn't have any duct tape. We decided along the way that it would be best to check into our hotel first, so that we could spend as much time as necessary shopping for the event.

"God, a Mariott, Car?" whined Matt.

"Well, it's where the party is located, and it's the nicest hotel in town. You didn't expect me to drive all the way home at one in the morning, did you?" I replied. His behavior was really starting to aggravate me to the point where I would say anything to get him to stop talking.

"What? They didn't have a Hilton, at least?" he mocked.

"There's only one in the state, Matthew. It's in Portland." I replied. "Be glad we were able to get a suite at such short notice."

Matt gave an exasperated sigh as we left our luggage with the attendant at the door of the hotel. We decided to head towards the mall right away, in order to shop for fun clothes that impersonated those that my parents wore in the eighties. After we found a store that seemed suitable, Mary and I full-on attacked the racks full of hideous clothing that neither one of us would be caught dead in normally—except this was a "special" occasion.

"Why couldn't we have just raided your parents' closets?" Mary asked.

"Because my mother is neurotic—and she wouldn't let anyone wear anything that was considered 'last season', let alone keep it. Catherine was not exactly one of those _cool_ moms that kept her old dress suits and leggings." I answered as I sifted through racks of clothing at a DEB: the teeny-bopper stores always seemed to produce the best "costumes".

"What the hell is with the organization demanding people come in costume—especially in clothing from the eighties?" Matthew asked, mimicking a gagging sound in the meantime.

"This is Maine, Matt; not very much happens here. When we have parties, we like to dress up. The themes just make the festivities a little more fun and bearable. If they are anything like the parties I remember here, they can get pretty interesting. There was this _one_ time when I snuck—"

"Whatever you did, I'm sure it will wane in comparison to the joys of tonight's Small Business Owners' Association's Fundraising Gala bullshit," he spat.

"Matthew Daniel Bingley," I said through clenched teeth. If anyone in the store couldn't tell he had me steaming earlier, everyone certainly knew it then. "This event is important to me, because it was important to my father. It is also important to Mary, because she will be meeting many people from her community there. Now, you don't have to enjoy the event, but you do have to stop complaining."

It seemed that at that exact moment, Matthew finally understood what I had said. He simply, and sheepishly, replied, "Okay."

Matt, Mary and I continued shopping for the remainder of the two free hours we had, and we walked around the stores telling stories of our favorite wardrobe pieces from our youths. Eventually, the hunt came to a close, and we decided to not do anymore window-shopping. With the shopping excursion a success, the three of us retreated to our hotel suite to prepare our party attire. As time crept toward the event, the rest of the evening was spent getting ready. We ripped shirts; stretched out denim; and teased hair. At around seven-thirty, we decided we were reasonably fashionably late and dressed for our appearance. When Matthew had—finally—finished in the bathroom and stepped out, Mary and I were practically rolling on the floor laughing at what stood before us.

"What's so funny?" he asked. "You girls chose my costume—you _made_ me like this."

"It's just—" Mary tried to speak between gasps of air. "—It's just that—you look exactly like Corey Feldman when he was in _The Lost Boys_." We just continued to laugh and high-five each other at a job well done.

"Well, what about you?" Matthew said, waving a finger at me. "You could pass for a prude auditioning for Pat Benetar's _Love is a Battlefield_ video. Where did you find those God-awful, blue tights?"

Mary and I just continued in our hysterics, until she asked what she, herself looked like. I stopped and tried to rack my brain for a witty answer: Mary was just so plain and innocent looking. Matthew also seemed to have trouble finding a clever alter ego for his sister.

"Oh, I know," I began excitedly. "You're wearing what Madonna _would_ have worn, if she were singing about actually being a virgin." Mary just looked at me with a blank stare.

"It's total bubble gum, my dear," I continued, in a mock English accent. "To utter Debbie Gibson proportions." With that, Mary just grinned at me and giggled.

"So are we ready to get this over with?" Matt asked. "I just want to make an appearance, consume some adult beverages, and make my way back up here."

His question had me clenching my jaw so I wouldn't spat at him with a bitchy retort—no matter how much he deserved it. At that point I was too aggravated to say anything, so I just stood up and started for the door. Mary completely understood and followed. While Matt stayed behind a little extra to double-check his hair in the hall mirror, the two of us went into the hallway and I repeatedly pressed the down button at the elevator.

"Woah, now there, Car," Mary exclaimed, but she continued in a near whisper. "Don't let him ruin your evening—you know you will be unpleasant the rest of the night if you let him aggravate you."

"I know," I breathed out. "I just can't take it anymore, Mary. I'll try my hardest, all right? No promises though. If he so much as talks to anyone—which I'm near positive he won't—he will undoubtedly insult someone, and our reputations here will be ruined. I want your neighbors to like you, you know."

Just as I finished the last sentence Matt walked into the hall, closing the door behind. We all stood awkwardly in the hallway waiting for the elevator, until the little _ding_ sounded and we entered the small space, slowly going down.

"My this elevator is tiny, it's a good thing we took the stairs earlier. We could have easily—"

"Matthew, I swear to God—" I began before he shut his mouth. It was not long before Mary interjected.

"So I can't wait to meet everyone who's anyone in town. This little shindig better be as good as the one's you've described from the past."

"I don't doubt you will enjoy yourself," I replied, appreciative that she was trying to lighten the mood. Unfortunately, nothing changed in my attitude before the last _ding_ and the elevator doors opened. Surprisingly, the lobby was completely empty. As we made our way to the reception hall, Mary and I exchanged outfit inspections. We finally found our way to the doors, where people waited to take our names for the guest list. After we shared our names and tickets, the party attendants opened the doors to a room that one could not even imagine the brilliance of attention to detail.

* * *

A/N: I decided to cut this a little shorter so I could build suspense to the actual meeting of the Darcy/Bingley/Bennett clans. Until next time (I swear it won't be a year before my next update this time).


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